


A New Line of Work

by pts



Category: Premium Rush (2012)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 07:39:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pts/pseuds/pts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How a bike cop got a new job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A New Line of Work

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brinn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinn/gifts).



That one incredibly shitty day in 2011 was the beginning of the end of my law enforcement career.

I come from a family of cops, and I seriously thought I wanted to be one, too. And, I mean—I _was_ one. I went to school and I became an officer in the NYPD, which is kind of a Thing.

Anyway, I got what a lot of my cop friends considered a terrible beat, pulling bike patrol duty in Central Park. And I sort of played up the reluctant end of it, trying to make it sound like I thought it was silly, like I hated the shorts, thought “bikers” were a bunch of spandex-wearing poseurs. But I didn’t hate it as much as I said I did.

Six months later I was in the best shape of my life so far, and I realized that being on the bike was my favorite part of the job. I was faster than any of the other bicycle officers, and the more I did it the more being shut up in a patrol car (or, god help me, a cubicle) sounded like hell.

But then that one unbelievable day, chasing a skinny messenger kid around Manhattan until finally he stole my bike almost out from under me. I didn’t realize just how bad that day was until the pieces came together over the following weeks.

And I realized I’d been on the wrong side.

So I kept riding, but I didn’t feel as good about being a cop anymore. Suddenly all the little corners the guys on the force cut started bugging me more. Seeing who they let off the hook, who they leaned on. Seeing who wielded real power in the city, and how.

But on the bike, none of that mattered, so I kept riding. I started actually training, too, doing laps around Central Park until my legs felt like acidic jello. I dropped 15 pounds and had to order a new uniform, which earned me some serious abuse. Meanwhile I was pulling 250 miles a week—but wait, you don’t give a shit about my training regimen.

You want to hear how I beat New York City’s fastest messenger at his own game.

The secret is that there is no secret. I just wanted it more.

I found out about the big Halloween alleycat, and I decided I would enter. I’d never raced before, but I knew the city pretty well, and I was sick of being a cop. So why not do something moderately illegal?

Thing is, you might recall that October 31, 2011 featured the worst snowstorm in years. By the time I left my apartment, the wind was blowing and the white stuff was coming down good and hard.

I brought my own ride, of course—I think the guys that ride track bikes without brakes are insane, but I appreciate the idea of keeping a machine simple. My bike’s not that different from the single-speeds and fixies the hipsters and messengers favor, except mine has fenders and gears (a 10-speed Campagnolo Veloce hub in the rear, single chainring up front, if you’re curious).

Anyway, back to the race. I got the stinkeye for riding a bike with gears, but there weren’t any cracks about my fenders—not given the driving snow and slush on the roads.

I had a moment of being astonished that this was even happening—there had to be close to a hundred riders here, each of whom had chosen to come out and and bomb through the streets of Manhattan in the middle of a blizzard rather than hole up inside with a mug of hot whatever and wait for the storm to stop hammering the northeast. They fistbumped and high-fived and goddamn if I didn’t hate my job more in that moment than I ever had before.

The whole time I kept my eyes open for Wilee—although I didn’t know his name, then—and when I spotted him, I made straight for him.

Once he saw me, his expression careened from dawning recognition to momentary panic to confusion to amusement.

“Hey, remember me?” I said.

“Hah, yeah, I sure do, _officer_ ,” he said. “Hey, guys! This one’s a cop! He’s a _cop!_ ” He raised his hand in the air and pointed down at my head.

I tried to wave it off. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. I’m off duty. I’m just here to race.”

Wilee laughed, then shook his head. “Whatever, man.”

A wild idea came to me; I spat it out before I had time to think better. “Hey, if I win this, can you get me a job?”

Wilee’s laughter this time was even more raucous. “Shyeah. Dude, if you win this, you won’t _need_ me to get you a job. Any messenger outfit in the city’d hire you on the spot. But, heh, you’re not gonna win.”

I grinned. “We’ll see.”


End file.
